You Used to Be a Muggle Too. Can You Do It?

By the time Gavin left St. Mungo's, it was already dark.

He did not head straight back to the castle. He turned down a little-used path beside the courtyard and stopped in the shadow of an old yew tree. Leaning against its rough bark, he pulled the Marauder's Map from inside his robes.

He ran a finger over the crease, unfolded it, and spoke the password.

First, he checked the Headmaster's Office. Empty.

Dumbledore's name was nowhere on the map. Rare, but not surprising. He went out sometimes, for the Wizengamot or for something else, and never reported his whereabouts to anyone.

Gavin pressed his thumb down an old fold and scanned the third floor, then the fourth. His gaze stopped.

Quirrell.

The name hovered in the Third Floor Corridor, not far from the Trophy Room. Around the next corner lay the forbidden corridor, and the name was moving toward it.

Gavin watched the little black dot for a moment. Once he was sure Quirrell had entered the room, he raised an eyebrow. He had not expected the moment to arrive so soon.

He folded the map along its creases, tucked it back inside his robes, and stepped out of the tree's shadow to return to the castle.

The Great Hall was as lively as a pot of thick soup bubbling on the stove.

The Hufflepuff table was particularly wild.

Hufflepuff had won all three of its Quidditch Cup matches. Some people still seemed unable to believe it, so they made as much noise as they could. Pumpkin Juice spilled over the rims of cups. Glasses clinked everywhere. Someone had tied a yellow-and-black scarf around his head, while someone else stood on a bench, beating time on a plate with a fork.

Hufflepuff Chaser Tamsin Appleby was being made to